


King of Spain

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Spain, barcelona, even my fluff is angst-ridden, john is awesome in any language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-22
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, John speaks decent Catalan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King of Spain

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up with this story, pretty much in its entirety, in my head. It was very important that Barcelona be in this, for some reason. I really would love to try some _zarzuela_ now. Things came out differently when I wrote it down, but either way it made for fan-effing-tastic procrastination. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
> 
> Even my fluff is going all angst-ridden, y'all. On the other hand, turns out John speaks a decent amount of Catalan, and if that's not the hottest thing you've thought about all day, I'd like to know what is.
> 
> Quick and dirty beta-beating done by [Castiron](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiron/pseuds/Castiron), as per usual. And she's just as awesome as always. And also, a hearty thank you to [anarmydoctor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anarmydoctor/pseuds/anarmydoctor) for correcting my spelling of _zarzuela_! (If you haven't you should go read her fics just as soon as you're finished with this one!)

“Sherlock, I need you to explain what happened in Barcelona to me. I’m confused.”

Sherlock turns away from the window, from the violin he’s been very much _not_ playing, and looks at his flatmate. This is it. This is the end. It’s been fun while it lasted, but he ruined everything, just like he always does.

“And do not blame the sangria, Sherlock. You weren’t any more drunk than I was.”

***

It was Mycroft’s doing, of course. Sherlock was in his debt, and this was repayment, this case in Barcelona. In beautiful Spain.

Sherlock would never be able to think of Spain the same way again.

John had loved it, and Sherlock had loved watching John. Sherlock always loved watching John, but in Barcelona he was different; he was more. More John than ever before. Sherlock watched the play of muscle beneath the bare skin of his arms, his neck, quickly tanning in the sun. Watched him in short-sleeved shirts and khakis, both of which did far more to emphasize his physique than the bulky jumpers that were his norm in London. Sherlock watched his smiles, noted all the tiny differences, watched his eyes crinkle with laughter.

It really wasn’t a laughing matter, the case really was of international importance, but John laughed at all the most inappropriate things and always had. Sherlock delighted in it, every single time, had ever since their very first night together, running after cabs and away from bobbies.

John spoke decent Catalan, and better Spanish. He laughed when Sherlock discovered that fact, when his jaw dropped comically.

“I think this is my favorite of your expressions,” he said, giggling. And he explained the study abroad program he’d done, and how rusty his Catalan really was, and how shameful it is and perhaps he should consider an actual vacation at some point. John made his life an open book to Sherlock, talking easily of a past he never shared with anyone, and Sherlock cannot help be caught up in the swirl of him--Sherlock may seem to be the exciting and fascinating one, but he knows that those descriptors belong to John and he never wants anyone else to discover just how wonderfully intriguing John Watson really is.

 _John has a favorite of my expressions?_ Sherlock’s breath caught on the inhale, and it was wonderful. Better than any high, the thought that John might actually catalog him the way he catalogs John.

He had to force himself to think about the case, to think about anything other than John: the way his r’s trilled when he spoke, the smiles, all of his best smiles come out to play in the sunshine, the brief warmth of one tanned hand on his shoulder and the tingling sensation that emanated from that spot, even long later when he thought about it. Sherlock had to force himself not to imagine kissing John in every single ridiculously beautiful location the case took them to, and it was twice as hard in the less savory parts of town.

John delighted in the afternoon siestas, and Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to resent them, because they meant more time with John. They had sat in the hotel every afternoon sipping coffee and chatting of inconsequential things, and Sherlock cannot, will not let himself resent those conversations that had nothing to do with the case.

He managed to keep his thoughts to himself; he knows he did. He solved the case, and he may have only put it off a day or two, so he could keep enjoying John’s unabashed glee, keep enjoying how relaxed and happy he seems here in this foreign country. He wonders if he’ll ever have another reason to listen to John’s lilting Catalan; it’s amazing how improved he is over the course of their time there, over just a few days, how quickly it had all come back to him.

John dragged him over half of town looking for a half-remembered tapas place that he raved about, and ordered half the menu when they finally found it. The _zarzuela_ was magnificent, and the regional paella not at all what Sherlock was expecting, and before he knew what John was up to, he’d eaten a full meal, and they’d split a large pitcher of quite possibly the most wonderful sangria Sherlock had ever tasted. John’s relaxed enough by the end of the meal to loosen his tongue, impressing their waiter and the man who turns out to be the owner with his speech and his effusive praise of the _zarzuela_.

And now? John’s right: neither of them is drunk at the end of that meal, but neither of them is quite sober either.

Sherlock followed him back to the hotel, dragged along in his wake, blind to everything but John walking in front of him, beside him, lisping his s’s and switching easily between Catalan and Spanish, saying god only knows what to Sherlock. He followed John back to the expensive hotel that Mycroft had booked for them, far nicer than they could afford on their own, followed John back to his room instead of stopping at his own, crowded into John’s personal space, far closer than is even his wont (Sherlock has long been fascinated by how little John seems to mind when Sherlock stood too close). And John had laughed at him. John had laughed that wonderful laugh and Sherlock had known that though John was laughing at him, it wasn’t cruel laughter, it wasn’t a denial. It was “what took you so long?” and then he’d said it as well.

“What took you so long?” John asked; the sangria made him even less inhibited than Spain itself did, his eyes were twinkling and serious at the same time, and Sherlock finally sees _everything_ written across John’s face, and goes breathless with the shock of it.

“I didn’t know,” he replies.

“Silly git, how could you not?”

And Sherlock had growled at him, and then kissed him. And kept kissing him until they both lost their breath, until he couldn’t tell where his thoughts ended and John’s began. They’d tumbled into the bed in John’s room, breathless and laughing and kissing and touching, oh. The touching, that had been the best part, John’s hands all over his body, reverent and awed and just the right amount of greed.

That had been all that had happened though; kissing and touching and reverence. John was careful and soft and had worshiped him and it made Sherlock shudder just to think about it. Nothing, really, had happened, and yet _everything_ had.

***

Sherlock hasn’t said a word since. He’s had silent days before, John should know them well by now and does enough that he usually leaves Sherlock to it (he seems to instinctively know the difference between ‘quiet day’ and ‘impending black mood’ and always acts accordingly--yet another item for the list of things that makes John Watson completely, incomprehensibly extraordinary), but this one is different. This time he’s silent _at_ John, waiting for something he can’t define, dreading something he can’t name.

He had left the next morning before John woke up, uncharacteristic need to flee too strong to fight no matter how comfortable it was next to John, and John, being himself, had taken it in his stride. He hadn’t made awkward small talk when he rounded Sherlock up to check out, or on the cab ride to the airport. He had briefly laid one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, had smiled at him.

But Sherlock couldn’t read his every emotion on his expressive face anymore, and he looked away quickly, from that smile. He didn’t speak because he didn’t want to ruin things faster than his rash actions already had. He didn’t want John to be kind to him, doesn’t want to be let down easy.

They’d been... not sober. And in a ridiculously romantic foreign country (or is it just Sherlock who thinks that?), and on the adrenaline rush in the aftermath of a case. And it certainly didn’t matter that he’d been in love with his steady, good, wonderful flatmate for months. It couldn’t possibly.

Sherlock turns back to the window, raises his bow again as though to start playing, and gives up in defeat just as quickly. He can’t play this. It’s impossible. His shoulders slump, and he hears a small sound come from John at that.

“Sherlock,” John says to his back, just the tiniest bit of impatience in his voice, from far closer than Sherlock is expecting.

“What’s to explain, John?”

John moves around to stand in front of him, takes the violin and the bow from his hands and puts them on the desk, because Sherlock sounds heartbroken (even Sherlock knows it, so it’s not surprising that John seems to know as well), like things had just ended instead of just started. John looks at Sherlock, makes Sherlock’s own deduction face at him (when did he learn that?). He stands well within Sherlock’s personal space; Sherlock can smell him, can count the pores on his nose. Sherlock watches, unable to move, as incrementally, John leans forward, face upturned, until he’s leaning against Sherlock fully, his nose snugged in the spot where Sherlock’s neck and shoulder meet. He takes a deep breath, and Sherlock follows suit, shuddering despite his best attempts to stop himself.

“This,” John breathes against his neck. The movement of his lips tickles, it scintillates. “Why you haven’t spoken to me since. Why you’re terrified that I’m going to... reject you. I thought I made myself perfectly clear. I thought you heard me.”

“Heard you what?” Sherlock replies. His hands are fisted at his sides and he’s nearly vibrating with the effort it takes him not to respond to John, but he doesn’t move away. He can’t, he doesn’t want to. This can’t be happening. Can it? Surely he’s dreaming.

“I thought you heard what I said; I meant it all.” John’s lips purse against his neck, almost a kiss.

“You didn’t say anything, John.”

“Maybe not aloud,” John allows.

Sherlock feels his hands, those wonderful reverent hands, at his wrists. They grip, hard, before releasing to wander up his arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Each breath shudders from Sherlock’s lips. Those hands move back down to his wrists, lift slowly and carefully, to place Sherlock’s hands on his back, and then wander again.

“Please don’t say no now,” John murmurs. “I don’t think I could survive it.”

Sherlock makes a sound that he cannot describe in words, a needy, desperate sound, and tightens his arms around John, dropping his head to John’s shoulder, holding on for dear life. John’s hands keep dancing over his arms, his back, through his hair, reverent once again. It’s like John’s praying, praying with Sherlock’s body and his own hands.

“Pinch me,” Sherlock says, muffled against John’s jumper. He wishes they could be back in Spain right now, wearing far less clothing.

“Why?” John chuckles.

“I don’t believe this is actually happening. Surely I’m hallucinating.”

John obliges him, pinching his arse. Sherlock starts; he’d expected the pinch, but had not anticipated the location. John laughs again, the sound low and languid. He turns his head a bit, starts nibbling on Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock melts. There’s really no better explanation for it. He wasn’t aware one could survive the disappearance of one’s skeleton.

For long minutes they stand like that, wrapped around each other, John nibbling on Sherlock’s neck and murmuring endearments and reassurances and things that turn Sherlock’s insides to goo, as if it isn’t bad enough his skeleton has vacated his body without informing him of its intentions. Sherlock is simply holding on for dear life and marveling that this is actually happening, this thing that he’d never believed he could have.

“You’re really here,” Sherlock eventually manages to say, and the awe in his voice would be embarrassing, if he were speaking to anyone but John.

John lifts his head enough to look Sherlock in the eye and shake his head. “Of course I am, silly git. We’re going to have to have a talk about this disbelief of yours. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock echoes. Is John going somewhere?

“Tomorrow’s soon enough. We’ve lots to talk about; we can start with how gone I’ve been for you for ages now and why you’re an idiot for not seeing it sooner. We’ll be busy ‘til then anyway.” John grins at him, Sherlock’s favorite grin. It’s the ‘this is dangerous and I cannot get enough of it’ grin.

That takes a moment to sink in, and John breaks into a wicked smile at the shock on Sherlock’s face. “That really is my favorite of your expressions,” he laughs, and then his voice drops. “Well, we’ll see. I expect it might be taken over by the look on your face when you come screaming my name.”

And he laughs harder when Sherlock’s jaw drops, delighted, wicked laughter that does... things... to Sherlock’s heartbeat and his libido. Wicked, promising things.

“Come on.” John grabs Sherlock by the wrist and leads him towards the stairs, towards his room.

Sherlock recovers enough to stop him on the stairs though. In for a penny, in for a pound. “John.” He makes his voice serious, because this is serious. Life-threatening, even, these sorts of things. John must understand.

John looks down at him from a step above. “Yes, Sherlock.”

“John, I am going to _keep_ you.”

John looks down at him for a long moment, face grave. “Good news, that, as I’ve every intention of keeping you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Zarzuela_ is a Catalonian dish that I found on a website when I was trying to figure out if paella is a regional dish in Barcelona (which, as it turns out: it exists, but does not originate from the area, instead from Valencia, and is made differently than it would be elsewhere). As far as I can tell, it's a shellfish and fish stew of sorts, spiced with tomato and lots of garlic and other things. I immediately started to drool, so I used it.
> 
> If there are any Spanish folk out there who would like to correct my sure to be horrendous bastardization of your culture, please feel free. No disrespect is intended, and all errors are entirely my own.


End file.
